Comfort and Joy
by moonlighten
Summary: 23rd December, 2011: England has strange ideas about what constitutes an enjoyable Christmas. Northern Ireland blames the whisky. One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


**23rd December, 2011; London, England**

-  
Northern Ireland turns the fleecy Santa hat round in his hands, inspecting it dubiously. As he'd suspected, it looks tacky from all possible angles.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks England, who, in his usual, imperious fashion, had burst into Northern Ireland's room and dropped the hat in his lap without a single word of either explanation or warning.

"Well, wear it, of course," England says, laughing at his own joke, and with a far more gusto than it deserves.

"Right," Northern Ireland says flatly, "I _do_ get the general concept, but… why?"

"Well, 'tis the season, and we" – England snatches the hat from Northern Ireland, and then unceremoniously shoves it on his head, bending his ears almost double in the process – "are going carol singing."

Northern Ireland thinks the only rational response to that is another: "Why?"

"Because it's _traditional_ ," England says, intoning the last word with a fervour that borders on the rhapsodic.

"Maybe it is for some people," Northern Ireland has to concede. "People who aren't us. We don't _have_ any Christmas traditions."

Well, they do have suffering through the Queen's speech, feigning appreciation for New Zealand's latest knitted sartorial indignity, and the slow, gradual, day-long slide into drunkenness and an eventual fistfight, but they aren't the sort of capital-T Traditions likely to paint England's face with that particular shade of reverence.

His expression soon collapses into its more usual state of dour gloominess, though. "Not since you stopped believing in Father Christmas, anyway," he says forlornly.

He sounds so saddened by that, almost personally betrayed, that Northern Ireland feels unaccountably guilty for his younger self's lack of credulity, even though he'd believed for far longer than most humans likely did. For two decades, his brothers had taken it in turns to dress up as Father Christmas and pretend that they, as nations, were uniquely qualified to help him deliver presents due to their magical nature and deep knowledge of their people. And for two decades, Northern Ireland hadn't questioned them, because, at the end of the day, they'd asked him to believe plenty of ridiculous things about his own existence that had turned out to be true, so he'd had no reason to distrust them.

That particular bubble had burst, as so many before it, because of a fight, loud and violent enough that it had awoken him early one Christmas morning. He'd crept downstairs to discover his brothers embroiled in a drunken argument about whose turn it was to pretend to be Father Christmas' helper that year. As none of them appeared to be particularly enthused to take up the mantle, Northern Ireland decided to put them all out of their misery and announced over breakfast that he'd read or seen or heard somewhere that Father Christmas didn't really exist.

At the time, England had seemed just as relieved as Scotland and Wales that he wouldn't have to keep up the pretence, but perhaps he'd simply been putting on a brave face.

The guilt crescendos, and at its apogee, Northern Ireland feels almost compelled to blurt out, "I suppose carol singing might be fun."

"Splendid." England's smile returns with suspicious rapidity. "Come on, then" – he ushers Northern Ireland out of the bedroom before he has chance to act on his very reasonable second thoughts – "everyone's waiting in the hall."

"Everyone?" Northern Ireland asks, incredulous.

Wales' inclusion in the abominable scheme is unsurprising, as he's always poised ready and waiting for the flimsiest of excuses to sing at people, but Scotland hates performing for an audience, and surely, if they were expected to dress up in seasonal tat, France would find the whole thing too undignified to bear.

England nods, the bell sewn on the end of his own hat tinkling merrily. "America suggested it first," he says, which also comes as no real surprise. America has been simmering with barely-contained holiday cheer from the moment he made his exuberant, tinsel-wreathed and Christmas-jumper bedecked, entrance the previous day, and probably needs the chance to safely vent at least some portion of it before he explodes. "But we all thought it sounded like a lovely idea."

Which is doubtless the fault of the whisky Scotland had uncorked after dinner. Things had already been on the downturn two hours ago, when Northern Ireland had beat a hasty, strategic retreat to his old room because England had started waving a sprig of mistletoe in America's direction with a look of intense and horrible purpose in his eyes.

"Lovely," he echoes, and presumably without the requisite level of enthusiasm in his tone, as England pokes his shoulder in warning.

"Yes, lovely," he reiterates, punctuating each word with another jab of his finger. "I think it's such a shame we don't do more things together as a family for the holidays."

He trots that sentiment out every year, but it doesn't usually survive beyond the first couple of hours of their visit, because inevitably Scotland will say something, or Wales will do something, or Northern Ireland will wear an expression that England deems insufficiently grateful, and he'll declare the entire occasion ruined and sulk for the duration.

Anything less than greeting card perfection is, apparently, unacceptable, even though he must know full well that those heady heights are impossible to reach even for families who don't have centuries of seething resentments bubbling away inside them, barely kept in check at the best of times, never mind when subjected to several days of enforced proximity with a near-endless supply of alcohol at hand.

Still, the sight that greets Northern Ireland when he reluctantly sets foot in the hallway – harried along by England's hand set at the small of his back, which gives a little push whenever he pauses for a moment to contemplate turning tail and running away – is a mildly encouraging one.

Everyone gathered there is red-cheeked and smiling, and there isn't a black eye or split lip on display between them. Even France looks happy, despite the fuzzy Santa hat that he must have been blackmailed into wearing, perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Someone or other has attached mistletoe to its brim. Northern Ireland resolves to keep his distance, and steps carefully around France on his way to retrieve his jacket from the coat stand by the front door.

"Where are we going?" he asks as he buttons it up. "Is there a service on, or a concert, or—"

"We're going door to door," England says, sounding gleeful,

Northern Ireland's hands slow and eventually still as he processes this information. "No," he says. "No, we're not. That's a—"

He means to say it's a terrible idea, because it is, and England clearly needs to hear that. Warbling away in the midst of some large, anonymous crowd is one – borderline acceptable – thing, but to inflict it, without warning, on people they might feasibly have to see again at some point in the future is beyond the pale. They're unpopular enough in England's neighbourhood as it is.

He doesn't get chance to say anything of the sort, though, because England shoves him outside mid-word, insisting that, "It will be _lovely_."  
-

* * *

-  
Despite England's assurances, his neighbour, Mrs Greene, certainly doesn't look particularly delighted to see them. She looks taken aback, and perhaps a little worried, her rheumy blue eyes shocked wide behind her thick glasses and one hand still clasped tight around the handle of her front door, readying herself, no doubt, to slam it in their faces at the first sign of trouble.

"Mr Kirkland," she says, her gaze flickering warily around the group huddled on her doorstep, "what can I do for you? You're not having trouble with Mr Featherstonehaugh again, are you? Because, like I said last time, I—"

"No, nothing like that," England interrupts her hurriedly. "We've just come to offer you a Merry Christmas" – England gives a courtly little bow that he must have dredged up from the seventeenth century or thereabouts – "and a song!"

"Oh." Mrs Greene blinks at England in obvious confusion.

England blinks back, and he hesitates. They all hesitate, because there was no plan devised beyond, 'knock on door, and if someone answers, sing'. What, exactly, they should sing was a detail sadly overlooked.

Scotland shuffles his gargantuan feet. America stares up at the sky. Northern Ireland takes a couple of steps back, preparing to flee once more, but then Wales takes a deep breath and belts out the first line of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ in his crisp, clear tenor.

Scotland joins in on the second line, twice as loudly as Wales and in a completely different key. America seems to take that as a challenge, and sings out the third line at a higher volume than the both of them combined. France clearly doesn't know the words to the song, but he grasps the tune easily enough, and hums along in a spirited fashion.

England catches up by the chorus, belting it out with all the verve of an opera virtuoso, if not any of the skill.

For his own part, Northern Ireland mouths along silently, clasping hold of the one, small shred of dignity still remaining to him.

And standing silently in the midst of the din makes it all the more obvious how appalling it sounds: everyone taking their own, esoteric route through the melody; following a different tempo and hitting different notes.

Mrs Greene appears to share Northern Ireland's opinion, judging by the pained wince she wears throughout their performance.

A couple of minutes later, when they finally stumble their way to the end of the song, she gives them a thoroughly unconvincing smile, and says, "Merry Christmas to you, too. That was lovely." England beams triumphantly at Northern Ireland. "Now, just… just give me a minute…"

She hurries back inside her house, and Scotland heaves a deep sigh. "She's probably gone to ring the police and make a noise complaint," he says. "Can't say I blame her. We sounded fucking dreadful."

"Nonsense," England says, wilfully disregarding reality as he is wont to do. "We weren't _that_ bad. There's room for improvement, to be sure, but—"

"Here," Mrs Greene says, reappearing at the door holding a plate piled high with mince pies. "Please, go on, take one."

The mince pies are still warm from the oven, plump with soft fruit liberally soaked through with brandy. As payments go, it's more than they deserve, but Northern Ireland isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not one that's so delicious. He takes a second pie at Mrs Greene's urging, too, because all he's got look forward to at England's house are his brother's sad attempts at the things, which are somewhat reminiscent of Canada's hockey pucks. Best to stock up whilst he can.

Whether it's the brandy, or just the simple joy of having festive fare in his stomach that's actually digestible, he can't find it within himself to protest when England bids his farewells to Mrs Greene and announces that they should move on to the next house.

"Onwards and upwards!" he says, beaming happily. "We can only get better from here!"  
-

* * *

-  
They don't get any better, but by the time they finally wend their way back to England's, Northern Ireland doesn't much care.

He's had far more brandy by that point, along with several glasses of sherry and half his body weight in mince pies and Christmas cake, so he's not really got room left for anything else, anxieties over their performance included.

England hangs back in the hallway whilst everyone else troops off to make a much-needed, thawing pot of tea, and throws a careless arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders, holding him still.

"You're smiling!" he says with great satisfaction. Northern Ireland wasn't aware that he was – after so long trudging door to door through sleet and gusty winds, his face is decidedly numb – but is prepared to take his brother's word for it. "See, it wasn't as bad as you thought it was going to be, was it?"

A faint hint of embarrassment does remain, squirming at the bottom of Northern Ireland's stomach, but by now it's buried so deeply under the alcohol, dried fruit and stodge that he can barely feel it anymore.

"It was okay," he can therefore say without a trace of a lie or exaggeration.

"You certainly looked to be enjoying yourself, especially at the end there. Everyone did." England briefly pulls Northern Ireland even closer against his side. "I was thinking we should do this again next year. Make it a Tradition."

Northern Ireland opens his mouth with the intention of emphasising that it was only _okay_ , perhaps pleading with England to not be so hasty, but the sound of laughter drifting from the kitchen ahead of them gives him pause.

They've spent the past two hours caterwauling, eating and drinking together, and – barring a slight, amicable disagreement between Scotland and Wales concerning the best arrangement of _Silent Night_ – not a single argument has broken out. No voices have been raised or punches thrown. It's more peace and good will than they can usually muster up at Christmastime, and that might well be worth embarrassing themselves for all over again.

"I think," he says, "that sounds lovely."  
-

* * *

-  
A little early still, but... Happy holidays, and Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it!


End file.
